Caroline ignored the rest of the insignificant chit’s words, turned her eagle eyes toward her prey, and dug her talons into his forearm. “Are you here unaccompanied, Mr. Darcy?”
The gentleman extricated his sleeve from her clutch and exclaimed, “Miss Bingley! As you can see, I am here with Miss Elizabeth; and her sister and both of mine are roaming about somewhere as well.”
“Oooh, dear Georgiana and Anna are here? Where are my dearest friends? I absolutely must pay my respects.” The ostrich-feather-festooned, turban-headed woman in the outrageous orange organza outfit swivelled her head in an owl-like manner, searching for familiar faces in the crowd while Darcy dodged being whipped in the face by the long plumage.
“Yoo-hoo, Miss Darrrceeey, Miss Annnaah!” As Caroline waved her fan aloft in an attempt to gain the attention of his sisters, Darcy boldly latched onto Elizabeth’s hand and pulled her away from the two unwelcome birds of prey. The startled young lady blushed at his forward action as she was pulled along behind him.
They came to a halt around a corner, in front of an unappealing canvas depicting an unappetizing bowl of fruit and berries. Once again, Darcy very reluctantly and slowly released her hand.
“Good God. What a monstrosity. I do not know which is more disconcerting, Miss Bingley or this painting. Miss Elizabeth, I apologize for that unpleasant encounter, for my impulsive and presumptuous action, and for stopping at this particular piece of cra ... aft. Who would dare have the audacity, not to mention bad taste, to actually create, frame, and hang such a garish eyesore?”
Elizabeth squinted and scrutinized the squiggly signature. “His name is unknown to me; and I must agree the rendering is a rather peculiar piece of cra ... aft, with no depth, no sense of perspective, or lighting. Where is the texture of the strawberry? Er, that is supposed to be a strawberry, is it not? And the gaudy colours are all wrong. Perhaps the poor fellow is actually colour-blind. Really, I do not care to boast; nevertheless, I could do better justice to the subject matter than has this painter. I hesitate to refer to him as an artist, because … ”
“Yes, yes, I get the picture, Miss Elizabeth; you do not care for his style either. Did I not say our minds are alike?”
“Well, we are certainly in agreement, sir, that such a distorted display of still-life art is not at all moving.”
Darcy realized he had never before enjoyed an art exposition as much as that afternoon. In fact, scarcely had he enjoyed any afternoon half as much. He had allowed himself to openly have fun in a public setting and relaxed some of his emotional guardedness … all because of this quirky, incomparable woman. Elizabeth Bennet, you might not live up to my unreasonably high standards, and you are definitely not the sort of woman I thought I wanted, but my expectation of perfection has thus far resulted in disappointment. I never thought I would find such a paragon in one so lively and lovely. But perhaps …
Their sisters waved to them from across the way, and it was fairly obvious Georgiana and Anna wished to be rescued from Miss Bingley’s peckish attention. Darcy and Elizabeth reluctantly joined their siblings and the other two young women. The expanded group wandered the gallery together, admiring or criticizing everything they saw, and some of the party even looked at the paintings on the walls. Miss Bingley ignored the works of art and especially turned a blind eye to the Bennet sisters. When she did condescend to speak, it was merely to insult or offend them. Although the Darcy siblings took great interest in the exhibit, they were preoccupied with attempts to diffuse Caroline’s snide jibes and bitter barbs ruthlessly aimed directly at Elizabeth.
Inwardly, Caroline Bingley seethed with curiosity, jealousy, and pique. Who are these countrified Bennet hoydens who scamper off to Pemberley, visit a servant, and end up consorting with Darcy and his sisters? He certainly seems to look in the direction of the dark-haired dairymaid a great deal, and Miss Eliza is obviously using her ample armoury of arts and allurements to draw him in. How despicable for a woman to be such a flagrant social-climbing fortune hunter.
Jane Bennet paid scant attention to either the displays of art or bad manners. She was far too busy stealing glimpses of and glances at the attractive, self-assured man across the room. Where in the world have I encountered him before? I am positive we are somehow and somewhat acquainted, yet I cannot recall where … Oh! Jane suddenly coloured and immediately wondered whether her sister’s perfect recall might be hereditary because an unforgettable image insistently clung and would not relent. It was at Pemberley. On the lawn. I met him that sultry and steamy hot summer afternoon.
Darcy was in no humour to give much consequence to anyone or anything other than the beautiful brunette Bennet by his side. He was quite distracted by her proximity, by an infernal internal impulse, and by protecting Miss Elizabeth from Caroline Bingley’s snotty snootiness.
Elizabeth’s attention was equally divided between the beautiful works of art on the walls and the statuesque one walking beside her. She took advantage of an opportunity to gaze up at him as she said, “Do you not agree, Mr. Darcy, that artists are colourful people who draw on their emotions and pigments of their imagination?” She was a smidgen disappointed when the gentleman merely nodded and agreed with the comment, apparently deep in thought and unaware of her wordplay.
The object of Jane’s study finally spotted their party, and his secret admirer secretly admired the power and masculinity he exuded as he flashed a knee-weakening smile and strode in her direction. Gone was the wild, green-tinged raffish ruffian from Pemberley; although he was more decently attired, there was still considerable evidence of well-toned muscles beneath his tight-fitting maroon coat and embarrassingly impressive bunchage beneath his inexpressible fawn breeches. Miss Bennet’s breathing became more rapid as his polished black boots brought him closer with every step.
Darcy: “Fitz!”
Georgiana: “Richard!”
Anna: “Cousin!”
Elizabeth: “Colonel Fitzwilliam!”
Jane began to hyperventilate.
Caroline: “Oh. It is you.”
Miss Sarah Dalrymple sighed, giggled, and sighed again. Hell-o, Colonel Stud-Muffin!
“Well, well, what a pleasant surprise, Darcy … and all these lovely ladies. Oh, and hello to you, too, Miss Bingley.”
Bows and curtsies were exchanged, and Miss Jane Bennet blushed anew. The gallant officer was not dressed in regimentals; still, he was dashing and extremely handsome, and the lady was very much affected by his male beauty.
The Colonel glanced around and asked, “Is Charles Bingley not here with you?” He looked pointedly at Miss Bennet and assumed her charming blush was brought on by mention of the other man’s name.
Caroline, who was obviously not affected by so much male beauty, sniffed, and said, “No, my brother is not here; and I might ask what brings you to such an exhibit. I have never thought of you as a connoisseur, Colonel.”
“One does not have to be an authority, madam, to appreciate fine art. Otherwise, you would not be here either.”
“Well, in the past, you did not appear to recognize beauty when it was right in front of you. Have you improved in the interim? Have you deigned to add ought of civility to your ordinary style? I dare not hope you have improved in essentials.”
“Oh, absolutely not, Miss Bingley. In essentials, I believe, I am very much what I ever was.”
“How sad.”
“I beg to disagree … ”
While the two continued to exchange derision, there was something in their countenances that made the others listen with an apprehensive and anxious attention; but Darcy disliked arguments and wanted to silence theirs, so he finally spoke up. “Miss Bingley and Fitz, your argument is too much like a dispute; so if you will both defer yours until you are alone, we shall all be very thankful.”